


One More Night

by alternateus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Drug Use, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Mary is Moran's sister, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternateus/pseuds/alternateus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dating Irene when he meets someone he doesn't seem to be able to resist. One thing leads to another, and suddenly Sherlock is in the middle of two very jealous partners and simply won't stop seeing them both, no matter how badly he knows it could end. It's always the same...</p>
<p>"Just once more."</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Night

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Video: Sherlock/Jim/Irene; One More Night [BBC Sherlock]](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/40510) by StefanHatersAreUs. 



> This was intended to be about three chapters long but now I don't know anymore. This chapter is mostly just introductions to the AU, will get to smut in later chapters but they will be easily skippable if that's not your thing.

The bell rang one minute and thirty-six seconds late. It always did, the clock controlling it had been running late for years but everyone considered the difference so small it hardly did any difference. Only every now and then some students tried to use it as an excuse to get out of class early, sometimes succeeding - mostly not. A single minute doesn’t bother anyone. There were two inaccuracies in that sentence: it was over one and a half minute, and it did bother someone. A lot could happen in thirty-six seconds.

“Statistically, there is enough time for not one but two people to kill themselves in that time,” Sherlock said, giving a look towards the clock that would in one minute and twenty-two seconds call the students to class. There was a chuckle on Sherlock’s right side and his eyes turned back to the young woman on the driver’s seat. 

“Always the romantic,” Irene laughed and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted slightly. As expected, he soon felt first nails, then fingertips making their way to Sherlock’s wavy hair, caressing and scraping small circles to Sherlock’s scalp. The second the bell rang, that gentle caressing turned into a strong grip that pulled Sherlock to the driver’s side of the car and crashed his lips to Irene’s. 

Despite the violent start of it, Irene’s lips moved slowly and gently with Sherlock’s. It was a part of what made the Woman so interesting: for an outside observer, Sherlock and Irene's relationship could've easily been mistaken for an abusive one, but on the closer look, there was a certain tenderness in her movements - even when she was literally beating the air out of him. Irene broke the kiss but didn't release her grip. "You are going to be late from class," she purred, the look in her eyes giving the clear message to wait for her permission before even trying to leave. 

"I can hardly be blamed for that," Sherlock answered, earning him a scratch at his scalp and a painful tug at his hair. Sherlock didn't gasp - he had it coming. Irene was still giving him that oh, so gentle smile. 

"I'll blame you all I want," she smiled, pecking a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and releasing him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her before pulling back to his seat. He tossed the strap of his bag over his shoulder, ready to leave the car when Irene reached over to him, placing her hand on Sherlock’s inner thigh and placed her lips right at Sherlock’s ear. “Think of me,” she breathed, fingernails caressing just over Sherlock’s crotch as he rushed out from the car. 

After that, it was hard not to have his mind running around Irene. During almost-dating they had had for the last four months was perhaps the most sexual relationship Sherlock would ever willingly participate in. Even if it wasn’t exactly the first – Sherlock had once tried for the sake of knowing what everyone was talking about and didn’t find it that interesting – it had certainly made a big impact on the nineteen-year-old’s life. Sherlock had come to the conclusion it had to be because of how… unreadable Irene was in everyday life. It was only in bed – or against a wall, or over Mycroft’s old desk, the location didn’t really matter – when they had both been reduced to a pair of syncing, sweaty and almost animalistic versions of themselves when Sherlock was able to study Irene. 

The downside of that was, of course, that the Irene that had settled to his brain permanently was usually wearing nothing but that pitiful yet interested look she had on her face whenever Sherlock was unable to move either because of his movements were physically restricted or because Irene had told him not to. 

It had taken Sherlock less than a twenty seconds for his mind to return to sex, twice. This must’ve been how ordinary teenagers felt. 

Sherlock made his way through the almost empty halls, busying his mind by reciting his likely never to be activated plans concerning the murders of his brothers. Then again, nothing was sure. Sherlock wasn’t planning on becoming a killer, but he needed to have a pastime. For now, doing drugs, crimes he saw in magazines, and Irene was doing the trick, but Sherlock found it likely it would get uninteresting in a decade or so. If he’s evaluation was correct, he’d be bored out of his mind by the age of 29-31, and would most likely end up becoming a serial killer just for the sake of showing his talent – if the Scotland Yard would not appreciate Sherlock’s skillset on this side of law, he would have to try out the other. The only faulty in this alternative was that his intelligence would never truly get the appreciation he deserved because absolutely no one in the police would be able to appreciate the fine details good murders entailed like Sherlock could. 

The first class was not even halfway done yet. 

It was times like this when Sherlock would have liked to audibly groan his eyes on the fact that Irene was still a year and a few months junior to him, therefore still in secondary school and not here annoying Sher-lock with the constant flow of handwritten messages travelling across the class. Sherlock turned around, intending to side-eye the class of mostly idiots he had been unfortunate enough to end up with, only to realise that there was someone sitting next to him, looking at Sherlock with a bored expression. 

“You didn’t sit there a moment ago,” Sherlock stated, drawing out a tired laugh from the woman. 

“I’ve sat here for five minutes, ever since I got to the class,” she replied with a thick American accent. Sherlock knew that wasn’t true, the woman’s coat was dripping water at average six drops per minute and going by the puddle on the floor, she could have not been here for that long. 

“Three and a half minutes, four at most,” Sherlock replied quickly, not bothering to give an explanation before focusing on more important aspects, such as the faint smell of cigarette smoke that lingered around her, as well as the mix of two very different perfumes, the shape of the eyeliner over her eyes… “Your girlfriend is a smoker, you can’t stand the smell. She’s tried quitting but it caused you both harm than continuing the habit so you left her this morning after seeing her smoke while you were doing your eye makeup, that’s why it the end is higher on your right eye than it is on the left.” 

The girl didn’t look surprised, embarrassed nor annoyed. That alone was enough to make Sherlock knit his eyebrows together. 

“I’m a friend of Moriarty’s,” she replied with a smile, assuming Sherlock would know instantly who she or the person she mentioned was. The woman casually extended a hand, smiling a bit wider when she saw the suspicious look Sherlock gave it before taking it. “Amelia Appleby, and I know who you are.” 

Sherlock gave the woman another look-over, seeing the details give him a more accurate, more specific picture of the woman next to him, including but not limited to a boyfriend in the military, airgun hobby and intelligence, but still not to the question on his mind. “Why are you sitting here?” 

Amelia rolled her eyes and laughed, pointing to the whiteboard. _The assignment will be done in pairs_. With another look, Sherlock could see that everyone else in the room had divided to groups of two and leaned over their desks. “Oh.” 

When it came to psychology, Amelia had obviously done her homework, going by the way she formed sentences on the paper that were so grammatically clean Sherlock was almost certain she was more or less reciting something she had read earlier. This didn’t mean Amelia had no real understanding on the matter, as Sherlock got to see almost every time the blonde started speaking. Her intelligence was above average even though Amelia constantly denied this and compared herself to ‘Moriarty’ – a boy who was the real genius of the two of them, according to her, but refused to tell more of him apart from studying Astronomy and being an admirer of great intelligence – such as Sherlock’s. 

The class ended, Amelia collected her belongings and left with a short ‘see ya’, walking calmly towards her next class. Sherlock walked towards his, only to see a note – written by a female, not the lecturer, to the back of an old test and brought here with a rush – on the door, telling that the class was cancelled. With a pleased smile Sherlock turned around, walked through the library to pick up a few unattended newspa-pers before going outside. He’d have plenty of time to look through the papers for something interesting. 

But first, nicotine. 

Sherlock pulled a single cigarette, nicked from the nightstand of the guestroom Mycroft used when he was visiting, always leaving a carton or two behind. Sherlock didn’t care how or why Mycroft always re-membered to take everything with him except for the cigarettes, the most important thing was that he did. Making his way towards a free corner of the building, Sherlock placed the fag carefully between his lips as he lit it and turned around to lean against the wall, only to see a guy – about the same age, maybe a little younger than Sherlock, going by his height – following him. 

“Could you bum a fag?” the other boy asked, Irish accent clear in his voice. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, investigating him. 

“I don’t borrow them to strangers,” Sherlock replied but took out a cigarette as an offering – identity for the smoke. The boy simply laughed. 

“As if anyone’s a stranger for you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

This surprised Sherlock, but he only let a part of it show. He blinked once and pulled his head back slightly, offering the cigarette as he asked, “And you are?” 

“Jim.”


End file.
